The Darkest Hour
by The Archimedes Complex
Summary: Following a particularly catastrophic string of losses, The BLU Medic is given an ultimatum by the powers that be: find a way to keep the team alive on the battlefield, or face 'Reassignment'.
1. Chapter 1

"You have failed!" The administrator could hardly disguise the scorn in her voice as she spat over the speakers.

_Natürlich! _

BLU Medic gritted his teeth. He couldn't see why she seemed so shocked; after all the BLUs had systematically lost every hold they'd had on the map over the last month! What made her think today would be any exception?

He scowled at the loudspeakers and turned his attention back to the task at hand. The young Scout beneath him let out a long low moan, a shot from the enemy sniper had pierced his bicep, shattering the bone and tearing a hole so wide through the arm that at first Medic thought it had simply been bending at a second elbow. It wasn't that surprising; after all he had seen worse things in this place. Much, much worse...

Even so, there was no chance in hell he could save the arm. And considering they were already in hell the odds of him just surviving were looking shoddier by the second.

"Hold still," he muttered, reaching for his tourniquet and looping it round what was salvageable of the bloody limb. Bringing up the bonesaw from his holster he could see the young mans eyes treble in size.

"Doc, what are you-"

"Zhis vill hurt." Medic reassured. His bedside manor never had been much good, and being stranded out on the front line in the thick of it held no exception to his demeanour. It was just another luxury he and his dwindling number of patients couldn't afford.

Before the Scout could start to protest again he swiped the bonesaw clean through the dangling sinew.

"My arm!" He screamed in horror. "I've had that arm my whole life! What have you done?!"

_Oh Vunderbar, He's a screamer. If zhe RED's hadn't figured out ve vere down a man before, zhen zhey certainly vill have now!_

Swearing, crying, even praying was beginning to build up a rapport in response to his work. Not that any of it helped them of course.

"Don't be such a baby!" Medic growled, shooting a look out of the temporary cover he had found the Scout sprawled behind.

The front line was a total mess. Whatever tactics the BLU's had mustered prior to their inevitable defeat had once again only contributed to their ... inevitable defeat. If their territory wasn't on fire it was debris, if it wasn't debris it was dust, and if it wasn't dust then it had probably been shot at so often it had just given up hope of retaining any kind of form and disintegrated entirely. But for all of the chaos, he couldn't see a single flash of red. They had their chance.

He didn't even give the young man a chance to pick up his limb before hoisting him to his feet and dragging him back towards the base.

"Doc, you gotta let me get my arm! I need that arm! It's my right arm, my _batting _arm!" the Scout pleaded, looking a little paler by the second.

"Nein! I must get you zhe infirmary before you bleed out. Zhe tourniquet will only hold for-"

"PREPARE FOR SUDDEN DEATH." Came the administrators screech. She grated on his nerves at the best of times, but even he could tell when she was trying to hold back a laugh. God he despised her.

Sudden death was usually reserved for stalemates, but he knew for a fact that the last control point had been captured... no, _dominated _by the RED's not too long before. Allowing the winning team to hunt down and kill every remaining BLU on the field even after they'd lost was just ... overkill.

A little voice snorted with laughter and chided him in the back of his mind.

_Overkill? Oh please! Like such a concept exists in zhis_ _Höllenloch! _

"Doc, please-"

"No time!" Medic barked, wrenching the snivelling Scout away from the front line and pelting back through what was left of their territory. He wasn't getting caught in that fight, no sir, not with this _dummkopf_ in tow.

It wasn't that he was a coward, he wasn't afraid of dying; it was just what came _before_ the dying he was anxious about. Sudden death had a tendency to bring out the much more gruesome side of the teams, a side that he wanted to avoid seeing by any and all means. It always made such a mess that inevitably _he_ had to clean up. Or try to at the very least...

"Doc I can't... I can't run any more." Gasped the Scout stumbling awkwardly as Medic wrenched him forward, the tied off stump of his arm flapping uselessly behind him.

"It vas your arm zhat you lost, not your legs! Now Move! Schnell!"

But he already knew that no number of times he 'Schnelled' the youth could possibly get them away from the enemy team any quicker. The volley of cries echoing from RED base were getting louder by the second, just as the Scout was getting showing signs of extreme blood loss.

_Typical. _He scowled and skidded down a smoking embankment.

Funny, he hadn't recalled ever noticing such a large, crater like hole in their land befor-

"Scheisse!" He hissed, grinding his boot into the dirt and scrambling back out of the pit. He knew he wasn't seeing things, that the smouldering fissure really was a new addition to their map. "Zheir Demo has made it passed zhe defense!"

"Yeah... I remember... saw him just as I got pinned... yeah... big fella, eyepatch..." Scout was warbling. Confused, pale, weak, and that was just a Scout on a good day, but with one missing an arm it was only a matter of minutes before he went into full-blown shock. If they could just make it to the tunnels they'd have a clear run for the safe-zone, but there was an enemy Demo lurking somewhere behind their line with a variety of explosives at hand to blow them to kingdom come. And what did he have to combat such an exotic range of bombs? A saw, a couple of tourniquets, a few bandages, gauze, a half broken pen somewhere in his back pocket and a delirious, one armed Scout. Funnily enough, he didn't fancy their odds.

He launched Scout round and made for a detour. It would take longer, but they'd be alive.

"Eypatch... just like a pirate... I'd make a good pirate... cos I'd look great with an eyepatch."

Was he giggling?

Delirium or not, _that _was the last straw.

"If you do not run faster I svear I vill give you good reason to vear a damn eyepatch!" He threatened.

The next moment was a blur. Through his yelling he had forgotten to check the route ahead and had slammed head first into a very large, very hard, very blue object. He'd have recovered fast enough had the Scout not ploughed into the back of him and knocked them both to the ground.

"Doktor!" Through the thick, booming Russian tang of the word the mystery of the big, hard blue object resolved itself and offered Medic an enormous hand. "Is sudden death! Doktor should not be here."

"You don't say?" He replied dryly. With a newly acquired throb knocking at his temple he took Heavy's hand and sprung to his feet, noticing one of his eyes was plush with a dark purple bruise and swollen shut. He hadn't thought it was possible for the 7"4, bulky Russian brute to look any more menacing than he normally did. He was wrong.

"RED have breached first defence. Is no good to go back to front." He was empty handed. A heavy weapons guy without a weapon, yet another useless armament to add to his arsenal.

"I am avare, Heavy. But zhe route to base is compromised. Zhe only safe option is to head for zhe tunnels."

"Nyet, is too open." Came the blunt response.

"Zhe alternative is not an option, zhe Demoman is in our perimeter."

"Demoman I can take, Sniper out in open? Nyet. We go back through middle ground."

Did he understand the laws of chance _at all_? Fact: they were probably going to die either way, but there was less chance of a single bullet hitting them than running in blindly to pit full of explosives!

"Exactly vhen did you become invulnerable to bombs?" Heavy's brow furrowed in confusion.

"I do not understand, am not-"

"My point exactly. Zheir Demo has probably already lay tripvires, mines and traps all over zhat area. Zhe tunnels are closer and will be covered vonce ve are inside, it is zhe logical route!"

"And how will you outsmart Sniper bullet with no cover?" He sneered defiantly.

"It is zhe lesser of two evils Heavy, trust m-"

It suddenly dawned on him something was missing, the annoying niggling sensation tickling his ears had finally fallen silent... Scout was being uncharacteristically quiet.

All too late Medic turned and saw the boys eyes had rolled back his head and his body shook like there was an electric current running through it.

The tourniquet! It had come loose from his arm, blood was practically pouring from the stump, draining him of what little colour he had left.

_Verdammt!_

"He's gone into full shock. Qvickly, zhere is no time to loose." Heavy could have easily taken the scout of the ground with a single, giant hand. Instead he hoisted him up into his arms where he was swaddled like a baby, and almost like a mother Heavy's face fell with concern. But feelings were another luxury they could not afford at a time like this. "Zhe tunnels are quvickest. Raus!"

Without even a whisper of his previous argument his mountainous figure suddenly rocketed off in the other direction. It almost didn't seem possible for the usually bumbling bear of a man to run quite that fast, Medic almost had to sprint just to keep pace with him.

"Who else vas out on zhe front?" He asked as the gaping mouths of the tunnels loomed into view.

"Was Pyro and Soldier." Heavy snorted, visibly clutching the Scout tighter into his chest. "Was."

"You are sure?" He had somehow managed to drill the basic principles of CPR into Heavy for good measure. As the teams only Medic it was just wasn't feasible for him to keep track of every live, dead and dying man every minute of the fight, but after several 'sandviches' worth of persuasion Heavy had finally picked up on how to properly distinguish between dead and alive. For example, Sandvich had no pulse and if it were a teammate would be, by all accounts, dead. The concept had shocked Heavy at first. He had always considered 'Sandvich' a teammate. But by some kind of magic, the lesson stuck. "You checked zheir pulses?" he asked again, following closely in his wake as he darted into the tunnel.

"Is hard to check for pulse on man with no neck. And also no wrist. And also no body."

A heart-stopping crack echoed around them. Something whipped at the air in front of Medics face almost making him stall.

Sniper had spotted them.

Heavy threw him a look with a silent '_told you so'_ etched into the lines of his frown.

If looks could have killed, the glare he fixed on Heavy would have slain him on the spot.

* * *

Heavy was no Doctor, but even he didn't need a degree in medicine to tell that the little man dangling limply in his arms didn't have long before he joined what was left of the Pyro and the Soldier in the morgue. God, that image would haunt him for weeks – just him bellowing uselessly to hold their position on the front as the barrage of RED bullets hailed down on them. They hadn't stood a chance. _No_, they would have stood a chance if only _he_ had been a better leader. And now no amount of Medics SeePeArgh was going to bring them back, not with that many holes in them anyway.

But it didn't bare thinking about; all that mattered now was getting Scout to the Infirmary. He wasn't going to let this one sit on his conscious with Pyro, Soldier, and the countless others he had failed to protect.

With the thought clear in his mind he skidding down to the base of the tunnel and sparred no time rushing inside.

"Doktor!"

"Ja, I am here. Keep moving!" Came the curt reply. At least he had Medic, of that he was glad, though with the poisonous looks he had thrown before he wasn't sure how glad Medic was to have him.

Through the dark he scrambled over the curved bed of the concrete tube and headed for the halo of light at the end.

And then came the howls.

The dark resonance of war cries tinted with manic laughter spurred Heavy on more than any whip could have. The tunnels unnerved him at the best of times, small spaces of any kind just closed in around his shoulders and seemed to trap him like a giant rat in a tiny tube. And now with the threat of being in someone's clear line of fire with no-where in the concrete tube to turn, it was safe to say the tube suddenly felt a whole lot smaller, smaller than, say, as the barrel of a rifle...

They just managed to reach the bases drainage room when the whooping holler of the enemy Sniper finally followed them to their mark.

His anxiety finally got the better of him.

"Doktor! Hit lockdown!" He bellowed.

"Lockdown? But zhe ozzers-"

"NOW DOKTOR."

Medic didn't dare to question him again. The moment they stepped into the weakly lit room Medic whipped round and punched a large red button planted on the wall.

It activated so fast Heavy couldn't' t tell if the bulbs gave out before or after the thick metal shutter slammed down over the tunnels entrance. With a deafening boom three feet of metal suddenly separated them from the RED's, and from the sounds of the shots pinging uselessly from the other side it hadn't been a moment too soon.

They were safe.

"Schveinhund!" Medic growled. In the pitch-black belly was the reverberation of a dozen similar snaps of shutters barring down the base. "_Now_ how vill zhe ozzers get back!?"

"No others doctor. Ambushed at point, no survivors. Even Sasha..." He flinched at the memory of his precious minigun thrown down in the dirt. It shook him to the core. Somehow the RED Heavy had landed a blow to the side of his head so hard he'd dropped her, it was a miracle he'd managed to stumble out of that fight alive! Even so, the empty scream of her dusty barrel hung in his thoughts, taunted doubly by the RED Heavy's mocking tone.

"_And they call you Heavy Weapons Guy? HA! Is insult to entire class!"_

He was going to tear the grin right off that ... that _ублюдки _face if it was the last thing he ever did! He would pay for making him do that for Sasha, for making him leave her behind...

The whirr of the backup generator rang through the dark and the room was filled with a dim light flickering from the precariously dangling lightbulb above them once more.

"All of zhem? _All_ of zhem?!" He had known Medic would react badly to the news, the doctor never had been keen on loosing fresh soldiers to their first battles, which is why he had tried to keep it to himself until it was absolutely necessary to tell him. He knew instantly he'd made a mistake.

"Da" He grumbled. "Ambush... big, big ambush..."

The doctor was grinding his teeth so hard heavy could almost hear them cracking. This wasn't going to be pretty...

"Vhat is zhe _point_?!" He cried. "For all zhe useless, stupid dummkopfs zhey send in day after day all zhey ever do is die vizhin zhe first hour of battle! And for _vhat_?" He began to jabber senselessly in tones that were shrill with pure, unadulterated rage. Heavy knew this part well: he was snapping.

"Doktor-"

"All just to fail at taking back a point in zhis Gott forsaken pit of land! Do zhey not even see zhis? Do zhey not learn _anyzhing_ from zhe reports?"

"Dokt-"

"If zhey do, vhy do zhey insist on flooding us viz offense vhen vhat ve need is support?! I must have said a dozen, nein a hundred... nein, a _thousand_ times- "

"DOKTOR!"

His rant finally came to a stop and he let out an exasperated sigh.

"Vas ist loss Heavy?"

"Is not breathing."

The little man in his arms was entirely motionless, even the faint rise and fall of his chest had ceased completely. Heavy cursed his ignorance. "Scout is not breathing!"

"Infirmary! Now!" Medic barked, all anger dropped from his voice as suddenly as it had risen. Once again they were sprinting for their lives through the dingy belly of the base. The infirmary wasn't far, in less than a minute of tearing through the various corridors and hallways and Heavy was stood in front of set of double doors with the a great, red cross emblazoned on them. The very sight flooded him with hope.

"Will be fine Scout." He muttered. "All will be fine."

Medic barged through and launched quickly for his machines.

"Get him on zhe gurney."

Heavy lay the limp man down and helped Medic plant a series of sensors onto his skin. The Cardioscan behind him buzzed to life, but the little yellow line that should have dancing with a heartbeat only let out a single, monotone hum.

"Scheisse, he's gone into cardiac arrest. Heavy, remove his shirt." Medic flew back across the room and hauled up the defibrillator, flicking the knobs in an almost random pattern before gripping two pads that crackled with electricity and rubbing their little metal plates together.

Heavy fiddled with the tiny buttons trailing down Scouts shirt but couldn't get his fingers to unhook them. With the snap of electricity getting louder he had no choice but to rip through the buttons and tear the shirt open.

He'd buy the Scout another as soon as he got through this.

"Charged at 240. Clear!"

Medic rammed the paddles onto either side of the Scouts bare white chest and loosed the charge. His tiny torso convulsed sharply for a moment and sent the cardio scans into a hopeful, bleeping spike of activity. Then fell back to its line.

"No response. Charging to 300. Standby." He twisted a knob on the defibrilator and the electric drone grew in pitch. 'Clear!"

Again the paddles hit the chest. Again the chest convulsed. Again the line danced. Again it fell flat.

"Charging 360... Clear!"

Paddles. Chest. Convulsion. Spike. Line.

"Charging 360... Clear!"

Spike. Line.

"Clear!"

Line.

"_Clear_!"

"Doktor-"  
"Ventricular nodes unresponsive!" He threw the paddles aside and launched forward, began pumping Scouts chest without restraint.

"Eins, zwei, drei, vier, funf, sechs, sieben..."

Heavy had never seen him this way before.

"...acht, neun, zehn, elf, zwolf,-"

Their Medic was committed, the longest serving member of the BLU team by far.

"Dreizehn, vierzhen, funfzhen-"

...The longest surviving.

"Sechszehn, Siebzehn, achtzhen, neunzehn-"

But he had never abandoned his judgement before. Logic was his primary weapon.

"Zwanzig!"

He ducked down and fixed his mouth to Scouts, giving him two of his own deepest breaths that filled up the boy's lungs.

The damn yellow line wouldn't budge.

He started again.

"Eins, zwei, drie-" It was painful just to watch.

"Doktor" Heavy murmered, placing a hand across his back.

"Vier, funf... sechs-"

"Is gone doctor."

"Siben... acht... neun... neun...nein... _Nein_. _NEIN NEIN __**NEIN**_!"

The compressions changed into blows; over and over he brought down his fists onto Scouts lifeless chest, thinking maybe perhaps he could viciously pummel the life back into him. Or more likely, just not thinking at all...

"YOU VEREN'T. SUPPOSED. TO GO." He bellowed in between the beats. "YOU. NEEDED. AN. _EYEPATCH_."

"Enough!" Heavy pulled him away from the bloody corpse, pinning his rage stricken form between his hands as he erupted.

"_DUMMKOPF_!"

The belligerent scream was ripped from the top of his lungs for so long that it was drawn out until his voice grated to hoarse whisper.

This had obviously been one loss to many for the man to handle. He could tell as the doctor trembled under his grasp that he had needed this, for just one of the conscripts to come back alive instead of having to pack what was left of them up into body bags and ship them home. He had needed Scout to live. He had needed just one success...

Heavy could relate all too well.

Medic suddenly sucked in a slow, steady breath and reached up to pinch his brow.

"Time of death," He shot a look at the wall clock and brushed Heavy's grip off his shoulder. "3.17 pm."

And just like that his cold, stoic demeanour returned. No one could ever have guessed at that a few moments before his steely composure was marred by a wrath that challenged the fires of hell themselves. It was one of the qualities he admired about Medic, that even in the face of inevitable adversity he somehow held onto his professionalism. No matter the cost.

Tugging at the creases in his coat Medic turned back to the Scout. With his glassy eyes and mouth ajar it almost looked like he was about to burst back into conversation, only the left side of his body was torn to shreds, the stump of his arm ragged and bloody, still dripping from the shot.

But Medic just seemed to look right through him. "Could you put him in zhe morgue wizh zhe ozzers?" He sighed as he reached over and plucked the silvery string of dog tags from his neck. "Collection comes first zhing tomorrow."

"Da, Doktor. I take care of him from here."

"Danke. Now I must inform administration." And with that he simply turned on his heel and marched out of the Infirmary.

No matter the outcome Medic had never seemed to dwell on the failure of a battle. It was as if he was impervious to the effects of BLUs defeat day after day, no feelings or regret, no reaction to the bodies piling up around them.

He had never seemed to be part of loosing team.

Until now.

Heavy knew it was wrong, but he felt oddly relieved. They were in hell, surrounded by death day after day. But through everything, it was almost reassuring to know that just like the rest of them Medic was still, somewhat, human.


	2. Chapter 2

"Unacceptable."

Even a thousand miles of telephone wire could not hide the disdain etched in the Administrators tone. Her curt retort to his appraisal of the situation was spat so viciously that Medic wincingly moved the phones receiver away from his ear.

The Briefing room was empty all for the exception of a table and telephone stuck awkwardly in the middle. He had originally assumed that the whole, dimly lit layout of the room was designed for optimal soundproofing, but his theory was flawed by the incessant whir of the generators in the maintenance bay below it and the chatter that resonated through the halls when the base was full with new recruits. Throwing that theory aside he really had no idea why Administration insisted on contacting them in such a dingy, unprofessional manner.

Whatever the reason, Medic found it crude.

"It would appear that the one hundred yards and sixty seven inches gained by the Reliable Excavators sets a new record for 'Most Land Lost in a Single Encounter'." She added sarcastically.

Oh to count the ways he _loathed _this woman.

He cleared his throat and braced himself for the next ear-load of cutting remarks.

"Unfortunately, ve vere left viz very little choice once our offense team vas ambushed at zhe point-"

"I do not care for excuses, Doctor. I want your full report."

The brash demand damn near blew his hearing out.

Trying his best to un-grit his teeth and hide all contempt from his voice, he reeled mechanically through the events of the battle they had so irrefutably lost.

"In order to regain ground lost in zhe previous engagement our offense and defence classes attempted to utilise a shock tactic and flank zhe contested control point. It appears however zhat zhe Reliable Excavations team anticipated zhis and set up an ambush prior to zheir arrival. Enemy engagement lasted approximately six hours before zhe point vas successfully secured by zhe Reliable Excavations team. Even so, the Sudden Deazh order vas given and ve vere left wiz no option but to retreat back to zhe base and initiate immediate lockdown."

"Incorrect." She barked. "Your judgement of the situation is flawed."

_Deep breaths. _He reasoned calmly, trying not to crush the receiver in his white-knuckle grip. He'd learned that arguing with this dried up bag of old wind was pointless years ago, but that didn't stop the sting of her remark to his integrity.

"Viz all due respect, you initiated Sudden Deazh in unmitigated circumstances. Ve had no alternative."

"Article forty five, subsection two point one, paragraph nine under the Code of Conduct managing Private Warfare in the state of New Mexico: domination of contested control points is achieved once _all_ members of the opposing fraction have been removed or eliminated from the point site."

He knew the exposition dump well, although this time he could see no relevance to the reference at all. Perhaps she was turning senile? One could only hope.

"As I said Frauline, zhe point vas secured by Reliable Excavations after zhe team vas ambushed-"

"The Pyro was alive." She interrupted.

_Vhat!? _He tried adamantly to keep the surprise of this information from knocking his composure, but the disembodied voice of his superior already held the tinge of her well-worn cynicism. "Reliable Excavations report states that several minutes prior to the timeout, Builder's League Pyro sustained fatal damage and was assumed dead on point. In their lapse of judgement they failed to notice the point was still activated as BLU at timeout, under the Pyros hold. In failing to achieve their conditions, Sudden Death was initiated."

_Verdammt! Gott Verdammt! _He'd known it. He'd known it ever since he'd first clocked that great, lumbering, useless Russian face. He'd even asked him directly about the others, and the reply he got?

'Ambushed at point, no survivors'. Heavy's exact words.

Words Medic was going to make sure he ate after he personally fed them to him with his bonesaw!

The Pyro had been alive. A new recruit at the mercy of the RED team on a blood hunt.

If he had been lucky he'd have been shot, skinned, mutilated, then burned.

If he had been very lucky, it would have been in that order.

_He never stood a chance._

"I vas... unavare."

"Clearly." Came the scornful reply. "In any case the control point is has been reset to a state of neutrality. Reliable Excavations have agreed to a two-day ceasefire in accordance to article twelve, subsection nine of the Conduct Code in the wake of the Sudden Death initiative. Your team will be given this time to recuperate and evaluate warfare tactics."

_Vunderbar. _At least that would give Heavy some time to write up his last will and testament before he throttled him.

"In light of the loss of both your Soldier and Pyro, I have filed for two more conscripts to be assigned to the Builders League front, this will bring the total of replacements up to one hundred and fifty three-"

"One hundred und fifty four." He corrected, though he wished he could have been wrong. "Ve require anozher recruit."

"What?" Came the poisonous hiss, a reply that insinuated there had better be a damned good explanation for such a request.

"Zhe Scout vas fatally vounded just prior to Sudden Deazh initiation. I attempted to revive him numerous times but vas unsuccessful due to medical complications."

Silence.

The most grating reply of all. Through the miles of wires between them he could have sworn he heard her smoke stained teeth grinding down to their gums.

It seemed like a good time to voice his request for support classes, seeing as he could do nothing more to possibly worsen her mood.

"I vould like to take zhis moment to request zhe conscripts furzher assigned to zhis front are of support and defence class. As you can clearly tell from zhe streak of nine – no vait, is it ten? Ja, ten consecutive losses ve require more zhan pure firepower."

_Vhy do I even bozher?_ He knew for a fact nothing he said would even dent their iron-clad ignorance of the situation. He was asked day in and day out for a report. Every time he specifically emphasised their need for support over any other class, every time they were flooded with offense, and every time it was always down to him to pick up what was left of them off the field. Without fail.

"If ve are to have any hope of regaining back zhe land, our priority must now be defending vhat ve have left. I hope you can appreciate zhat."

The line remained dead.

Either the Administrator was so far gone in her anger at them loosing three new conscripts that she hadn't heard a word he'd said or she was so far up her own rear that the words had been blocked by the amount of utter _kuhscheisse_ she was filled with. Assuming the latter, Medic let out an exasperated sigh and went to put the phone back down on the stand.

The cold crackle of her response stopped him in his tracks.

"Elaborate on your appraisal of 'medical complications.'"

Was this ... concern? The administrator was _concerned _about the manner of a conscript's death?

He wasn't sure if it was just him or if the briefing room had suddenly dropped several hundred degrees because it certainly seemed like hell had frozen over.

"Ahh.. vell..." He struggled, trying to organise his thoughts. "By zhe time I managed to get to him he had already lost a significant amount of blood. I calculated zhat zhe right arm vas majorly compromised but even after performing zhe necessary amputation he vent into shock induced cardiac arrest."

"You attempted revival?" She asked.

"Ja, but despite numerous resuscitation attempts he did not respond. He vas pronounced dead in zhe infirmary ten minutes ago."

"I see." She said flatly.

_Vhat is zhat supposed to mean? _The turn of the conversation had him entirely perplexed.

"Is zhere somezhing I should be informed of here?" He tested curiously.

"You should be aware Doctor, that this level of incompetency will not be tolerated by the Builders league."

Medic nearly dropped the receiver.

"In... Incompetency? _My_ incompetency?!" He almost screamed down the phone, but by some emergency reserve of self restraint he managed to keep it to a belligerent growl.

"That is correct. Your inability to distinguish the critical status of your comrades, or appropriately treat their injuries during battle, has obviously cost the Builders League dearly. As such, your case history will be examined and your current placement evaluated."

_Zhis has got to be a joke... _She always found a way to work through the loopholes and bring the blame back to rest on their shoulders, but to single him out and attribute their loss to the fact that he couldn't perform miracles in the middle of a warzone!? It was insanity! Utter insanity!

"You cannot honestly believe zhat my medical ability is at fault here! Need I remind you zhat ve are at _var?! _Zhere is only so much zhat bandages and medicine will do for vounds zhat leave my patients looking like verdammt colanders!" he shouted bitterly, the reserve of his self-restraint finally running dry.

"You would do well to remember your place, _Doctor."_ There really was no need for her to emphasis the lacking authority of his title, even without it the threat was as clear as the glasses on his face.

"My... apologies." He muttered, though he never had been one for swallowing back his pride. "I just... cannot believe zhat I am zhe one being reprimanded for events beyond my control."

"On the contrary. The loss of three conscripts during one engagement lasting five hours and twenty seven minutes is a figure the Builders League believes could have been prevented. By _your_ action." There was no doubt that she was enjoying this, he could practically hear the smile in the treacherous twist of her voice. "It is therefore concluded that there is an imbalanced effort between the current recruits and the so called 'value' of your medical ability."

Had he not been choked by anger he would have screamed down the receiver until the speaker on the other end exploded. With an apathetic sigh she carried on.

"We will take your request regarding the conscript selection into account. Should a similar result to today occur after the ceasefire however, the Builders League will have no option but to remove you from your current position, and reassign you to a more... stable environment."

Anyone with half a brain knew what 'Reassignment' really meant.

The Mann brothers hadn't spent nearly fifty years at war only to let their own mercenaries spill top secret beans to the enemy the moment they had outlived their usefulness. No, they were much more paranoid than that.

He'd learned from reports hidden away in the backlogs that 'Reassignment', as they called it, was actually a large red stamp in your report that attested to a host of mental deficits; PTSD, Schizophrenia, Insomnia, Triskaidekaphobia, Foreign Accent Syndrome, anything they could get away with to make you look madder than a dummkopf on dummkopfest. It was a one-way ticket that sent even the deadliest mercenaries kicking and screaming to the state asylum.

He knew full well that those detained there were never released of their own free will; they were either kept long enough that they eventually did loose their minds, or were wheeled out with a lobotomy addled brain in tow and a lifetime ahead of meals that could be consumed through a straw.

No, the only way he was ever getting out of the deal he'd made with the devil was to survive and win.

Unfortunately the latter part of his plan was not quite turning out as he had hoped.

"Do I make myself clear?" The Administrator asked, seemingly oblivious to his mental turmoil.

"Indubitably." He growled.

"Good." She said, pointedly. "Collection will run tomorrow as usual. I will arrange for three conscripts to be deposited at the Builders League base. Is anything else you wish to add to your report Doctor?'

_Zhat you are clearly and irrevocably insane to zhink zhat blaming me vill justify your loss of zhis var? _He toyed with the idea of giving his thoughts a voice, just as his thumb brushed over the dog tags he had clenched in his pocket.

The memory of the Scouts slackjawed, bloodstained figure involuntarily needled its way into his forefront of his mind. He couldn't have been any older than eighteen; a boy in peak physical condition who had better than average odds surviving out there... and this seemed to strike at some particularly sensitive nerve in his integrity.

He really, really didn't want to admit it, but the truth was if he had just been quicker he probably could have saved him. The problem here, aside from the fact that they were all employed to murder and maim their way to victory, was time. In the time it took to save one man four more took their place.

He could have saved Scout, but saving all of them simply wasn't feasible.

And now he was expected to, lest he fancied a visit to the state asylum where they'd stir up his frontal lobes with a fork like they were yesterday's rations.

"No." He grumbled. "Zhat is all."

The dismissive click of the receiver closed the conversation. He placed the phone down, turned on his heel and left the room, mentally chalked up a 'to do' list as he did so.

Firstly he had to go and retrieve what was left of the bodies from the field and bring them back to the morgue. Then he had to write up the letters of death notifications to the recently deceased's next of kin's. After that he had to have a very specific and probably very extensive 'talk' with Heavy, detailing the impact of his moronic sense of 'dead and alive' that would probably end in some form of altercation depending on how long he could hold back his temper for and what corrosive chemicals he had at his disposal.

And there was something else as well... ah yes, he had to miraculously come up with a method of healing all members of his team, during battle, somewhat instantly, and win the war.

Honestly, there was something about having his life depend on conquering the impossible that really put him in a bad mood.

* * *

Heavy had accepted, long ago, that he would never truly be able to tell what Medic was thinking. Just when he thought he had a vague idea of how the Doctor reasoned and controlled his every straight-laced action, something would happen like his sudden, inexplicable outburst in the infirmary before. It was only natural to be partly affected by the death of a teammate, but the Doctors reactions to each loss varied across a spectrum of sheer indifference all the way up to pure, unadulterated rage.

He pondered to the cause of this particularly emotional meltdown as he carefully stripped down and cleaned up what was left of the Scouts corpse. Maybe it was something to do with Scouts age? He was young, probably the youngest they'd ever had running around on the front line, and his incessant boisterous chattering never failed to remind him of a hyperactive child. Perhaps he reminded Medic of a family member, a son possibly? A brother?

Unlikely. They couldn't have been more perfect polar opposites if they'd tried. Besides, he wasn't even sure if Medic had any family. In all the months he had known him the German had never once opened up for more than a few lines of battle-related conversation, let alone offered his personal life up for discussion.

He sighed and pushed the question to the back of his mind as he finished mopping the last of the blood and dirt from the boys skin, and reached for the body bag.

Gently laying the Scout inside he made some last adjustments to his hairline before nodding in approval at his efforts.

"Is time to go home." He whispered tenderly, before tugging at the zip and closing him in to the temporary synthetic tomb. He deserved a better send off, and the Doctor probably could have done a better job at tidying up the ragged stump of his arm, but there was nothing more he could do now.

He began to push the gurney towards the morgue when the infirmary doors slammed behind him.

Ah, Medic was back from briefing, and in a bad mood no doubt.

"Am almost finished Doctor." He called out, waiting for the stream of angry German cuss words to turn the air thick with insults.

But Medic didn't respond.

He shot a look back over his shoulder to find the intrepid man of medicine glowering dangerously at him, his arms filled with what appeared to be charred debris. He moved over to the second gurney and placed his load down, and Heavy's nose was suddenly assaulted by a vile, noxious stench. He batted the smell away with one giant hand and gagged.

"What _is_ that, Doctor?"

Hardly seeming to have heard him Medic moved methodically over the stinking pile and started to pick through it, straightening out the carbonised remains with sickening cracks until it slowly began to resemble certain... human features.

With a horrendous sinking realisation, Heavy looked from the burned out bones of the twisted black limbs to the trademark gasmask of the Pyro, which had melted hideously onto its owner's skull.

"It is a gift from our RED counterparts." Medic said flatly, reaching for his bonesaw and cutting through a particularly tough section of the now hardy plastic exoskeleton. "He vas fortunate. It vould appear zhey did not bozher to skin him like zhe ozzers. Alzhough zhe accelerant zhey used took care of zhat job for zhem."

The sight flipped his stomach over and turned it to lead, but he couldn't take his eyes off the body. It was curled up like it had been trying to make itself as small as possible to keep the flames at bay, its hands clawing out like its last moments were spent reaching desperately for help that wasn't there...

_Oh no... oh no no no. _

The Pyro had been alive when they set him on fire.

Heavy felt instantly hollow. It was like a plug had been pulled in his feet and everything inside him was draining away.

But he'd seen him killed at the point! The RED Demo had rained the bombs down on them the minute they'd bolted from their cover. He couldn't have survived that! ... Could he?

"Is not... is not possible-" He warbled absently, only to be silenced by Medics sudden, unforgiving stare.

"You are not to say anozzer vord until I tell you to." He snarled, snapping what should have been an arm from its blackened socket and making the threat clear.

"First, you are going to help me lay out and examine zhe Pyro's cause of deazh. Zhen you and I are going to have a little chat about your understanding of alive and dead..." he brought the bonesaw up to his face and waved it emphatically at him. "Wiz _practical_ demonstrations if need be."

He didn't need to know what thoughts were going through Medics head now to understand that this was going to be very, very bad.


	3. Chapter 3

Spy disliked many things; the bitter aftertaste of corked wine, for example, and the hassle of cleaning blood off a brand new suit. There were few things, however, that he truly despised,things that he would have paid any price and worked till his dying day to eradicate. The uncivilized, and the foul smelling, were two of them.

Which is why sharing a cramped, humid compartment with two men, one stretched out greedily across all but two of the seats and the other smelling like he had walked straight off a cattle ranch, had him convinced that the two hour train ride was going to be _hell_.

Nevertheless, these men wore his colours, the same light blue as the sky whipping past the window. Despite their obvious lack of dignity, and the fact that they embodied everything he truly loathed about his occupation, he was aware the colour connected them. From here on, they fought for the same cause. They were allies, for lack of any better term, and this warranted his need for co-operation.

The cattle-ranch enthusiast wasted no-time figuring that out, practically leaping on Spy the moment he slid open the compartment door.

"Well, hey there!" He grinned from under the brim of his hard hat, standing up and offering Spy a hand covered in all kinds of dirt and grease. "Take it you're headin' our way?"

"I believe so." He said taking the hand, silently thanking god he was wearing his gloves.

The hardhat's gaze flickered about him, instinctively sizing him up. That surprised Spy, everything about this man, from his tiny, pudgy stature to his dopey grin, just screamed civilian. But the dash of the eyes about his frame was the tell-tale trademark of a killer; a man used to facing his enemies more often than not, constantly aware of his position and, more importantly, his ability to take out the man stood before him. He made a mental note not to underestimate this particular labourer.

He shook Spy's hand vigorously and settled back down. Spy swung his case up onto the luggage rails and sat in the last seat that the spread of their so far silent comrade had left them.

"Don't take much guessin' to figure you out. Some kind of covert operations, right?" The hardhat motioned to Spy's head, causing him to consciously tug at the neck of his balaclava. Admittedly, he had not been fond of their cheap, starchy, regulation uniform, but he still claimed that his discovery of the attires incredibly flammable nature was a simple 'accident'. As a result, he had no option but to wear his own tailored, navy blue Venetian suit that gave him the sophisticated edge of any self-respecting, elite assassin. What a shame.

"Your powers of observation serve you well." He replied thickly. "And I take it from your own notable appearance that you're positioned on the backlines?"

With a chuckle the stocky man reached up and knocked on the hardhat, his chest swelling with a pride.

"You got me. Defence through and through. Full title runs along the lines of Electro-Mechanical-Logistics-Relay-Weaponry-Design Technician, but it's easier for all of us if we just leave it at Engineer."

"A wise choice." He nodded, plucking the cigarette case out of his jacket and offering one to his newly introduced college. He held up a hand to politely decline.

"Quit a while back. No good for the ventilation of my mechanics, you know?"

"I can not say that I do. " Spy said, lighting his own cigarette. "My understanding of such devices is... limited."

_Limited to their demise. _He thought mutely. He'd seen it all, flying drones programmed to drop supplies, mechanised suits of armour, illiteracy beams, robo-sheep, the ridiculous list was never-ending! No matter how many diplomas and PhDs they pooled together, defence classes never seemed to learn that such _toys _were useless in a real mans fight.

"That's a shame." Engineer tutted. "Could do with a second set of eyes to help me work through a couple of blue prints, got some hella' handy prototypes in the makin' you see."

"Fascinating, I'm sure." He drawled, already sick of the chirpy, southern burr. Undeterred, the Engineer continued.

"Gotta say, it's been a while since we've worked with one of your lot." He turned and tapped his cat-like companion with the tip of his boot. "Hey slim, last fella we worked with on covert ops – you know tall guy, stupid goatee, was that in Moscow or Helsinki?"

"Buggered if I know." Came the response, pulling his slouch hat further over his face and folding his hands back over his chest.

Spy suddenly perked to attention.

The pockets of scars littering his tanned arms and ratted state of his clothes on this man felt familiar, but the tinge of an accent drove Spy's suspicion on.

A rude, scruffy, Australian mercenary? Could it possibly be...

"You are a Bush Hunter, no?" Spy asked smoothly.

The Australian said nothing; he merely bent one knee and did his best to turn away from them.

"Don't mind him." Engineer laughed. "We had a hard bet going last night. Turns out Australia don't train her boys to drink as much as they boast, ain't that right Sniper?"

_Sniper... _The term pulled the picture together and set off no less than twelve alarm bells ringing through his head.

He scanned the body again, but this time he knew what he was looking for. It took him next to no time to make out the tail end of a scar slashed across the man's cheek. It was faint, but he didn't need a closer look to tell it was his own handiwork.

Spy smiled and took a long drag on his cigarette. This was about to get incredibly interesting.

"So, how have you come to work for the Builders League?" He turned to the Engineer.

"Same as the rest of em I guess. Heard about the job through a contact when we were working back in Bruges." He motioned to his partner. "Said some crazy company back in New Mexico was hiring mercs by the truck load. Sounded like our kind of job." Engineer said.

Spy stared at him incredulously, one eyebrow raised.

"Was that really all it took?"

"Well, the money certainly ain't nothin' to sniff at. But a job's a job, and Europe was starting to run thin on use for our kind."

"I don't believe that for a moment." Spy scoffed. "As long as there are men breathing on that continent, there will always be work in Europe."

"Easy for you to say French Fry." He raised his hands behind his head and sighed. "It's alright if you got the know how's on the lingo and the custom, but take me and Sniper here. We just _look _outta place round most parts as is and can't speak a word aside English between us, think anyone's gonna want a low key job doing by a couple of mercs who stick out like a sore thumb?" He shook his head as if to answer his own question. "Naw, weren't our place. And that fancy ass continent of yours just doesn't have enough big jobs for our kind."

Spy took another drag, and blew it in the Texans direction.

"You do all your jobs together?"

Engineer shrugged.

"Pretty much. Why do you ask?"

"It's not a situation I come across often. I always thought it would be something of a hindrance in the field, a partner that is."

"Can't say I agree. This campers saved my life more times than I can count, s'how we met actually-"

One of the Snipers long, scarred arms suddenly reached across the carriage and smacked Engineer on the leg.

"D'ya mind?" A rather startled Engineer lowered his hands and held them up in defence.

"Take it easy slim, I'm just breakin' the ice-"

The Sniper pulled his hat off his face and sat up, glowering dangerously at his partner through a pair of lopsided, tinted Aviators.

"Go ahead and tell your life story if you must, but I've said before I don't like you spillin' mine to every tom, dick and harry we come by. Specially not to a-"

Silence fell between them as Sniper clocked Spy for the first time.

"Bonjour, Bushman." He grinned. "Remember me?"

It took a second for the full effect of the recognition to hit him, and once it did Snipers eyes bulged, his long face contorted somewhere between horror and fury. Oh, what Spy would have given to have a photograph of that priceless reaction.

"YOU!" He bellowed, launching towards him, as his hand wasted no time reaching for his knife.

In one swift motion, Spy slid off the seat and caught his hand before it could reach the knife, disarming him with a deft flick of his wrist as he twisted the Australian round and drove his hand up behind his back, then pinning him down against the seats he had leapt from. The Sniper gasped in pain, trying quickly to wriggle free from his grip.

"Now, now, lets not be hasty. We do not want a repeat of Zurich again, do we?" He snickered, knowing full well of the turmoil he was stirring up in the Snipers mind.

"What in tarnation-" The Engineer was on his feet, hand taught around the butt of a pistol still resting in his belt.

"Get'cha bloody hands off me!" Sniper roared, writhing dangerously like a trapped animal ready to lash out the moment it's released. "You're dead. You're a bloody dead man!"

Spy forced his hand a little further up his back, and the shouting dissolved into a hushed mutter of death threats. Pleased with his captive's position, he shot a look up to see Engineer, pistol drawn, barrel aimed firmly at his head.

"You better start explaining, boy."

"As his partner, this situation is not obvious to you?" The click of the pistols hammer being cocked answered his question. Spy let out an exasperated sigh. "I had the pleasure of meeting this bushman four years ago in Zurich. He was attempting to assassinate the president of the Swiss Confederation. I intervened."

"Why's 'at?" Engineer pressed.

"I was hired by the Federation to ensure such attempts were flawed. As such, when I found him crouched on top of the town hall, the most obvious place for such an attack I might add, we ended up in a minor altercation."

Another flurry of insults erupted from Sniper.

"Bastard cost me the first decent job in six months, then rolls me off the bloody roof and-" He was cut off by Spy raising his arm another inch.

"So as you see, mon ami, our mutual friend here is simply expressing his inability to move past this ordeal."

With that, he shoved the Sniper forward and released him, letting his sprawl onto his front and scramble for his knife.

"I'll kill you." He muttered, reaching for the Kukri handle, but the boot of the Engineer suddenly stamped down on the blade.

"Don't be a fool, slim." He said, lowing the gun.

"This has nothin' to do with you." Sniper sneered,

"If you kill him here, Builders League ain't gonna look kindly on it. He's on our side now." Engineer said flatly, returning the gun to its holster. "And we need this payday."

Sniper threw a venomous, sidelong look back at Spy, who had sat back down and was more than happy just to watch the drama unfold. He took another, leisurely drag on his cigarette, watching the decision tally up behind the Snipers eyes.

"Your college is right. Even if you _could_ kill me, I doubt it would be worth the consequences." He couldn't keep the glee out of his tone, just thinking about the fun he was going to have, tormenting this sad excuse of a mercenary, had him grinning from ear to ear.

Teeth bared, and fists shaking, Sniper finally relinquished his grip on the knife and pulled himself up, defeat clear in the jut of his jaw. Engineer tried to help, but was shoved away, viciously.

"This ain't over, Spook." He growled, leaving the knife behind, and making quickly for the door.

"Whatever you say." He smirked, winking as he met Snipers gaze.

The bushman held nothing back. The punch was quick, pain exploded across his face and swelled around his nose.

A cheap shot. One he was about to pay _dearly_ for.

* * *

The heat this time of year was close to unbearable, but Medic stood out on the station platform by the side of the three body bags, as loyally as any Labrador would. The smell was getting worse by the second, but his mind was far too busy to apprehend his surroundings. The same thought that had kept him awake last night incessantly buzzed round in his head, flaring up like he had poked an angry hornets nest.

_How to keep zhem alive? How to keep zhem alive? _The question was slowly driving him to the brink of madness. No solution he came up with so far had any chance of working in the field, and his time was running out.

A gust of dry, desert wind washed the particularly strong stench of the rotting bodies over him, as if to re-iterate the hopelessness of the situation.

He coughed and covered his face with his hand, muttering a host of curses in his native tongue. They hadn't really found enough of Soldier to warrant the use of a body bag, but regulations were regulations, and so the scraps of him that escaped the bombs had been packed into a soup can and zipped inside. The sullen look on Heavy's face had made the whole process that much worse. He blamed himself. Hell, Medic blamed him too, that much he'd made clear in the hours they spent laying out the Pyro. If anything it was a miracle that he wasn't stood next to four black bags, after the number of times he had nearly throttled him.

But that wasn't going to get him out of this situation now.

_Zhink now, zhink. How can you keep zhem alive..._

In a blur of wheels and carriages, the train finally pulled up to the station. It screeched to a halt and drew Medic out of his stupor just as the doors were hauled open. An official came out and greeted him with the usual grim condolences, he signed the paperwork and watched as the bodies were hauled off on their final journey home. Finishing up he looked down the platform, the sight nearly making him drop the clipboard in his grasp.

Three men were disembarking. Not the usual weapon clad, boisterous, offense types he usually had the displeasure of greeting, but three calm, collected, seemingly silent men, all but one of which carried a weapon.

Could it be... had administration _actually_ sent them support and defence?

Even from this distance he could tell the shorter man carried a tool box, one of the taller, leaner men was dressed in a sharp, blue suit with nothing more than a briefcase in his charge, and the last had a long barrelled rifle slung over his shoulder, a Sniper no doubt.

Support and defence. Not a single offense class in sight.

He wasted no time scribbling the last of his signatures, and shoving the board back to the official. It was a struggle not to run down the platform to greet them, the spring hardly keeping from his step.

This was it. This was what they needed. This gave them a _chance_ of surviving! This was his salvation!

"Guten Morgan!" He waved. "Am I right in zhinking zhat you are zhe-"

The closer he got, the more his heart suddenly sank back down in his chest.

A large dribble of crimson streaked down the side of the Snipers face, his lips and eyes red and swollen. The suited man was no better, though he wore a dark balaclava, a damp patch was visible just under his nose that held the unmistaken red sheen of blood. All three of them stumbled a little as they turned to face him; even the one with the toolbox limped round.

Injured. Every last one of them was already injured. And what was worse, all of their wounds appeared fresh from some kind of brawl...

The penny dropped, along with the sinking feeling caving him in. They had done this _to one another._

"Ah! I take it you're the Doctor on this base." The shorter man lowered his tool-box and offered Medic a friendly hand, but his teeth of his smile was smeared and stained with blood. "Good of you to come for us. Funnily enough, I think we could all use a bit of your help right –"

"Shut up." Medic Snapped. Here it came again. The cold, disappointed fury settling in his stomach, as his hopes came crashing back down to reality. "No-one, I repeat, No-one, is even stepping foot into zhis facility until I get a full explanation why zhe mercinaries I requested are already vounded, before zhey have even set zheir sights on zhe enemy." He could practically taste the steel in his own tone.

The three men seemed genuinely startled, looking agitatedly from one another and guiltily down at their own wounds.

"A little... misunderstanding." The suited man spoke up, the French tang wavering as he sought out an excuse. "Though I can assure you, it is settled now. No more harm will come of it." The other two shook their heads in agreement.

"No _more _harm?"

Medic was close to tearing his hair out. Of course! Of course it had all been too good to be true! This was it. He was going to be sent to the asylum. His brain was as good as meat on a butcher's slab, and it was all going to be thanks to these-

"Dummkopfs!" He growled, pinching his brow in vain attempt to relive the headache that had suddenly built behind his eyes. if he could have had his way, he'd have ordered them back on the train and sent their incompetent rears back to headquaters. But, just like every decision in this hell hole, he had no choice in the matter.

"Proceed through the station to zhe base. Zhe Heavy Weapons Specialist vill accompany you to your living quaters. You vill zhen report to zhe infirmary for evaluation. Do I make myself clear?" He looked up to see their string of confused faces, each looking more moronic than the last. "Vell, vhat are you waiting for, MOVE!"

Only the suited man looked like he was about to answer back, but he quickly thought the better of it as Medic placed a hand over his bonesaw. They wordlessly scrambled off in the direction of the base, limping and hobbling as they went.

Medic sighed. It was his own fault for getting his hopes up, and even so, this just made their position even more impossible to work with.

Mercenaries. Oh how he _hated_ mercenaries.


End file.
